Hungarian Backhand
by twistedsplendors
Summary: Torrid passions are unleashed when Carlisle can no longer control his fetishistic desires when Jacob delivers cookies to the family mansion.


_Hungarian Backhand_

A _Twilight _fanfic by Twisted Splendors (Edward/Emmett & Edward/Jasper)

A velveteen mist rolled down off the hills surrounding the sleepy town of Flint, Michigan. The mist crept over the aged oaks and pines that lined the village streets, themselves resplendent in their draperies of Spanish moss. Like a cat, the gray curtain slinked into the town. Not like a gray cat. More like a brown or brownish cat. Not a housecat, either. Like a puma. Or perhaps an ocelot. The point is, the mist moved in a fashion very similar to a wild feline weighing an average of twenty-five to thirty-five pounds and standing approximately sixteen to twenty inches at the shoulder. The ocelot has the lowest resting body temperature of any feline, making this simile particularly apt. Had the town a mind of its own, as the Flint elders often whispered in the smoke-darkened meetings of the Elk Lodge, and were that mind roughly similar to a small rodent, as the schoolchildren said in their jump-rope rhymes, then the town would no doubt experience a sudden and extreme fight-or-flight reaction, driving it to seek shelter in the many barrow-graves that hollowed the hills beyond the town limits. But the town was not sentient, and no civic spirit noticed the encroaching fog.

Like a stalker lurking in the bushes outside the windows of the homecoming queen, the mist quietly made its way into the yards of every house in town, the sleepers unaware of what lie in wait outside. It surrounded the old sawmill, which stood dormant ever since the plastics plant had moved into town in the late seventies, driving the wood business under and leading to a revolution in toiletries that somehow had failed to catch on in the outside world. It lingered in the old Baptist churchyard, dancing on the graves of the Flint founders, briefly, inexplicably, and entirely coincidentally forming the distinct likeness of a poledancing Richard Milhous Nixon. Into every corner and crevice of the town the fog crept, violating and de-virginizing its most secret of places.

All places but one, that is. Behind Schuyler Colfax Memorial Elementary School stood the dilapidated and misbegotten tire playground. A relic of the wild and wooly days before modern child safety, the playground was a child's dream, or perhaps nightmare. Geometric structures and platonic solids constructed entirely of frayed steel-belted radials, exposed wiring soaked in the blood of countless children. Above its pyramids and non-Euclidean castles towered the Tire Dragon, totemic animal and god to so many Colfax students, gazing eternally at the slack-chain monkey bars. Here alone the fog crept not, as if some force kept it at bay. Perhaps it was the blood, the playtime sacrifice of dozens upon dozens of Flint's youth throughout the many years, consecrating the site and warding it from malign influence. Perhaps, instead, it was the body of young Evelyn Des Martins, who vanished in 1973 and whom the schoolchildren still believe to be buried under the right front claws of the Tire Dragon, entombed there by the travelling gypsy Satanist cult that sacrificed her to their dark master.

Nobody knew for sure. Also, nobody was present to see this peculiar behavior, so it passed unremarked and unnoticed.

In fact, all the town remained completely unaware of this mist, asleep in their beds (or, in the case of Bishop Carlisle, asleep in the baptismal font). The mist overtook the town without a single soul noticing, blanketing and enveloping it in the cold and clammy embrace of a winter drowning victim, only with less shivering and without the incessant and meddlesome interference of homicide detectives. Strange shapes moved in the mist, and a plaintive and mournful cry could be heard (or could have been, had anyone been awake to hear it) echoing through the fog, a noise not unlike a baleen whale learning that it will never become the favored courtesan to the Sun King, Louis XIV of France. Had someone been awake, and had this someone been one of a group of, say, four misfit teenagers plus a Great Dane, said group mysteriously traveling the country in their altogether groovy van solving mysteries, then this someone may have (aided by said friends) launched an investigation of these sounds and shapes, eventually discovering that they were, in fact, only the effects of an atmospheric disturbance created by the recent detonation of Old Man Millikin's whisky still and meth lab. But no such person was awake, or in town, or indeed, entirely extant. And so the mystery would remain unsolved, albeit also unknown.

By half past six in the morning, the sun had risen above the hills, and the mist menacing Flint, Michigan boiled off by seven. The townsfolk remained blissfully unaware of the complete lack of danger that had nearly beset the quiet burg, and went about their business as they did every day. Which is to say entirely without vampires and buggery, and so our story turns now to someplace altogether unrelated, where those things were about to be found in abundance.

Hernando leaned against the low counter and pressed his fallow palms firmly against it, arching his back and throwing his head back in a languid stretch like a narwhal breaching the churning surface of the sea. He felt the familiar tinge of need like the smell of salt. He felt the raw edge of his need. He felt edgy. He felt.

And in feeling he knew not the darkness for which he longed. Instead an endless cycling of the sun in which there was only the restless need and the vomitus remorse and no sight or scent of change.

The sound of Edward stepping up close behind him broke his reverie. "Jasper," he breathed. The light on the tile counter and floor came in at a grey lazy angle flopping onto the floor as Hernando had often flopped onto the same floor after a particularly fiendish and visceral thirst slaking.

"Jasper, you're on edge," he said to Hernando.

"You're God Damn right I'm on edge. I'm tense as hell. We've got your whole situation with Bella, the werewolves and I…"

"And you just want to feed," Edwards words dropped onto the scene like a single drop of sweat from a nervous child onto a parched pavement. He said it as an observation, but also to show Hernanado that he knew what was really going on.

"No I don't," said Hernando in clear contradiction to what all people, both people in the room knew to be true. Hernando still refused to face Edward standing stock still over the counter, the cool tile now warming under his hands.

"You do and you will and you always have," said Edward as he stepped closer, now speaking over Hernando's left shoulder.

"I don't need your pissy bullshit," Hernando's stillness now threatening.

Edward was hot it had come to a boiling point. Firmly placing his left hand on the counter near Hernando's, he craned his ivory neck around in an attempt to force Hernando to face him, to face himself. "Right, you need to stop endangering you're family, endangering yourself. You need to find some way to satisfy your desires without drowning in blood.

Hernando spun around furiously, mouth open, ready to verbally blast Edward but stopped when his sudden movement brought him with the range of Edward's breath unable to clear his mind enough to look away from Edwards golden eyes.

"Well…," said Hernando lamely.

"Well…uh," said Edward, finally breaking eye contact, "I just think you need to take your mind off things is all."

"Easy for you to say," huffed Hernando, "you have Bella and… all that, all I have is this aching"

"C'mon," said Edward sliding around beside Hernando "you just need to relax a little, I could even like, give you a massage or something." Edward gave Hernando a joking squeeze on the shoulder.

"Well…," there was a languid pause, "I guess you could give me one…as long as it was short."

"Oh…yeah," said Edward as Hernando turned his back to him. Edward raised his hand as if he wasn't even sure if he was going to push Hernando away….Finally he place his hand on Hernando's snowy hill shoulders and began to rub."

Somehow, Edwards hands were moving over Hernando's front. In that moment of fear and excitement, blinding as pure light, that line unseen between Edwards upper pectorals and the intimacy of his nipples, that line between the touch of a friend and the touch of something more bestial, Edward hesitated his heart not taking the opportunity to beat. Then he realized that this is what he truly wanted his hand slid down gripping Hernando's nipple between thumb and pointer finger.

When Edward reflected on the incident later, it came back to him like a fight, or like a dream random flashes of images skin on skin, the memory of no image sight or smell but of pleasure shape like acid. Or hot like boiling lava.

In the heat of their passion, Edward reached above the pantry, stretching for the Crisco as Hernando writhed and climbed all over him.

And as they began to reach into the can, they began to play with the white substance. Pressing it onto each other, on each other's faces, their own little erotic food-fight, until they were well-lubed all over.

As Edward began to slide into Hernando, Edward groaned and Hernando gasped, his eyes shot open wide, not with pain, a sudden thought had come to come to him. A strange uncharacteristic twinge of conscience. "What about Bella?" He asked.

"I need your manly vampire love," Edward said, and began thrusting.

Then he gave him a certain look. And he knew that he would feel that feeling that he usually felt often.

Edward leaned back in the Cullens' tastefully-upholstered sofa and allowed himself a self-indulgent sigh. This was not a sigh of bodily fatigue. No, his slender, chiseled form had not felt pangs of physical exhaustion since his vampiric transformation so many years ago. No, this was a sigh of longing; A sigh of unrequited affection; A sigh of unspeakable unmentionables; A sigh unheard.

With a resigned groan, he rolled onto his side and bit his lower lip. A glance at his nineteenth-century, plutocrat's pocket watch told him his quarry would arrive soon. What ghastly obsession held him transfixed tonight? Was it Bella? Thoughts of her smooth, alabaster curves wrapped around his mind like a thorny serpent, its jaw swung wide with venom and malice. How could he continue to deceive himself so?

Like a thunderstruck weathervane, the front door swung open. The pitiful floorboards creaked in protest as the house's burliest inhabitant stomped in. Edward tried to maintain his composure, but his golden eyes betrayed him, stealing a sidelong glance. Carefully, surreptitiously, but above all, painfully, Edward sized up the figure before him.

His eyes beheld a wall of muscle. No, not a wall, a monument. Better still, a French bastille. The rippling creature before him was no less than a crumbling but ever-stalwart outpost defending some distant frontier from the frequent raids of a heathenous confederation of bone-wielding tribes. His eyes, honeyed and unblinking, beheld… Emmett.

"Don't look so down, Eddie. She'll call."

The low rumble from the direction of the kitchen startled Edward from his shameless scrutiny. "Oh, I uh…" Edward stammered. He felt like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. Except the cookie jar was filled with his pervish glances. And the hand was an unmistakable tingling. In his loins. Edward hastily stumbled to his feet and practically galloped toward the kitchen with some amount of difficulty, what with all the loin-tingling.

Emmett was sitting on the kitchen counter mopping his brow with a small, floral-print dishrag. Thin trails of dirt marred his adoptive brother's otherwise flawless face, practically aglow with the unmistakable radiance of sport. With an overly casual swagger, Edward strode by and thumped Emmet hard in the back. "Rough tackle?" he asked, with an awkward, throaty cough.

Emmett's eyes darted toward him, accompanied by a brief half-sneer. "Jealous, Eddie? Maybe Bella will let you practice on her." Emmet finished this statement with an oddly half-hearted leer, letting the words trail off. Then, as if sensing his moment of weakness, followed his words with a bone-crunching punch in the shoulder. Ordinarily, Edward would easily such a clumsy swing with the lithe, cat-like reflexes of Mr. Miyagi's rarely-mentioned tabby. Instead, Emmet's enormous, truncheon-like knuckles tore into his velvety arm-flesh like a spiked flail sent by the almighty.

"Unngh, dammit," Edward lurched forward and nearly fell face-first into the cold, cold sea of high-priced linoleum. But instead, he found himself caught, even cradled, in the sinewy arms Emmett. Sensing he'd never have this opportunity again, Edward reached up and gave Emmett's bulging, ham-like tricep a firm squeeze. Pulling himself forward with great pain, he nuzzled into Emmett's forearm, nestling his angular features into a veritable forest of arm-hair. Edward drew a slow deep breath, taking in Emmett's unmistakable man-roma.

Emmett's scent was that of pure masculinity. The sweet smells of sawdust and motor oil, churned together in the hollowed-out engine block of the General Lee to form a viscous gravy, fit for pouring over only the manliest of breakfaststuffs. Emmett smelled of football, motorcycles, and additional sides of bacon. In short, heavenly.

Edward squeezed his eyes shut tightly and braced for the worst. He expected to be thrown off, hurled across the kitchen like a discarded tramp in the inky darkness of night. Instead, Emmet pulled Edward closer, even closer, until their lips practically brushed against each other. They stood as such for what seemed like hours. Then, out of nowhere, Emmett grinned.

"Well, why didn't you say so earlier Eddie?"

With a hearty chuckle, Emmett pulled Edward toward his, thin, velvety lips. Edward, in disbelief, allowed Emmett to wrap his silky lips around his. Cautiously, their tongues explored each other's mouths like twin pythons locked into one last mating dance before the inevitable arrival of the snake-hatchet. It was primal, wet, and everything Edward ever wanted in mouthel form.

With his blinding speed, Edward tore off Emmett's T-shirt and "Members Only" jacket with a blur of his nimble fingers. Emmet let out a gravel-filled guffaw and slammed Edward face into the cabinets. "Ready for the Final Countdown Eddie?" Emmett asked, rasping into his ear. Edward laughed a thin, mirthless laugh as he rolled his eyes. He shoved Emmett back with blinding, Quicksilverian speed. Emmett unbuckled his bacon-stained khaki's. "Cold feet?" he asked with false innocence.

"Just shut up and get the butter."

Emmet kicked off his pants and underwear as he half-tripped to the refrigerator. He rummaged through the shelves and called out, "Is the I Can't Believe good enough?"

"If Fabio couldn't taste it, who are we to argue?" Edward replied.

With the force of a steam engine powered by boiling acid, Emmett leaped upon Edward. After a quick but liberal application of Fabio's debatable spread, Edward found Emmett's wizard staff nestled in his dungeon keep. Edward let out a long, throaty groan that echoed through the house. Good thing no one would be home this afternoon, due to the miniature golf Carlisle planned.

Emmett's engine was firing on all pistons as his gleaming thunder-rod piled into Mount Doom's labyrinth of caves. After several hundred thrusts delivered with vampiric strength, Emmett roared, "Here comes a new challenger!!!!"

Utterly spent, Emmett climbed off, got dressed, and walked out of the room. Over the shoulder, he called out to Edward, "Thanks for the rumble, Eddie, but let's keep this between us." Edward sighed, got dressed, and sat down in the kitchen, head in his hands, but a wide grin spread across his face.

10 years previously…

Hernando barreled into Edward's room, knocking the door off its hinges. Shattered pieces of the wooden frame exploded across the room, nearly impaling the elder Cullen as they smashed and splintered against the far wall. Hernando slowly swept the wood flakes off his jacket and remarked, "Hello, Edward."

Edward met his lurid gaze and replied, "Hello, _Hernando_."

"I expect there's a reason you called me here at this ungodly hour."

"There is indeed." Edward swept the splinters and wood off his desk, and gestured at the papers there.

Hernando frowned, spitting the toothpick out of his mouth, and grabbed a handful of paper.

"What the hell are these?"

Edward leaned against the desk, folding his arms across his delicious breast. "They're a recipe. To cure you of your bloodlust."

Hernando looked up sharply. "Really?"

"No. They're parking tickets. From the last time you borrowed my car. In Flint, Michigan."

Hernando glared daggers at the leaning Edward. "You're not expecting me to go back there. I can't. I won't!"

Edward stood to his full height, seeming to tower over the not-diminutive Hernando. "You will if you ever want to use my car again."

Hernando growled, popped the collar on his jacket, and stormed out of the room.

Hernando crawled slowly down the hill overlooking the great expanse of Flint, Michigan. High above him, the sun broke out from beneath a billowing mantle of clouds, bathing the entire hillside in a radiant, golden brilliance. He moved as one with a curtain of lurking mist that accompanied him down the hill, rolling and falling, picking himself up, then falling again. As he rolled past a cluster of fallen trees, his heightened succubus senses perceived the putrid stench of Spanish moss. "Spain," Hernando spat as his foot caught on a web of foliage then ripped itself free as he continued to roll downhill, still partially shrouded in mist. "I will crush Spain." He rolled on.

Hernando's tumbling descent slowed to a crawl as the landscape leveled out and he reached the bottom of the hill, coming lightly to rest in a pile of autumn leaves. A large sign lingered on the side of the road here, majestically proclaiming that in about thirty miles, he would reach the Flint city limits. Hernando cursed the sign with more vehemence than he had ever done.

An elderly man and woman heading up the hill stopped at his feet, staring curiously at him as he continued to glare at the roadside sign. Hernando hissed at them, and they hurried on their way. He waited for them to disappear over the crest of the hill, then ran after them until they came into view again, and he let out an echoing, maniacal yell, causing the elderly couple to whirl around in fright.

Hernando ran back down the hill.

It was nightfall by the time Hernando stumbled, naked, into the Flint Michigan city limits.

The last eight hours were about the worst he had ever had.

He whispered hoarsely to himself, "Things haven't been this bad since I joined the Confederate States Army in 1861 to serve in the Civil War. In Texas."

He hadn't eaten since breakfast, and had tried several times to pluck a deer off the side of the road, intent on sucking the blood from their deliciously bloated carcasses, but always they escaped him and mocked him with their winnowing laughter. He stubbed his toes twice on the same rock, trying to grab two different deer.

Hernando reeled onward, completely oblivious to the close presence of a large, blue mailbox. He slammed his naked knees against the metal monstrosity, frightening a young mother and the infant child she held in her arms. The child began to cry as Hernando winced in pain and released an echoing howl of anguish. In his gall, Hernando ripped the mailbox from its cement anchors, his sinewy muscles rippling under the strain, and hurled it across the street. Two women watched him from across the street, thinking that he had gotten an erection, which he had.

Police found the body in the ruins of the Grandmark Hills on a chilly Tuesday morning. According to several witnesses, the swarthy victim sauntered into town one morning, in the nude, and attacked an elderly couple and a young woman completely unprovoked. He then escaped into a nearby apartment complex where police assumed he hoped to find additional targets. Unfortunately for the offender, a massive fire broke out shortly before he arrived, and he was apparently caught in the inferno.

Police Detective McCartney shook his head. "I guess vampires aren't as durable as they used to be."


End file.
